Murmurs of Aspiration — 5

Aspirant: Divine irony my Beloved Lord
To crown me king over empires that matter not
And insist tyrant like to deny what I seek.

Thou dost mine my night with daggers of light
And in this dubious bosom of night, plant embers torn from Thee.


Aspirant: Stung with a thousand ills, soiled by vanities numberless
Garbed with gaudy perversions and sickly gluttony was I.
Yet thou comest on the whites of blinding light
A rushing blaze of many forms.

Sri Krishna: Heavenward my beloved soul, come now.

Aspirant: Speech falls mute, shy of looking at glory too profound for words
My Beloved Lord…

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.